The phone rings at 5am, not a ring, actually, but more of an angry buzz. Tommy rolls over and grabs it, joggling the earpiece off the hook, where it dangles for a moment as he collects his wits, then pulls it up and puts it to his ear. "Front Desk," someone says, sounding both chipper and tinny through the antiquated receiver, "This is your wake-up call, Sir." "Thanks," Gunn mumbles. He stretches, yawns, knuckles his eyes, then stands and pulls his suspenders back up. Trying to be quiet, he collects his coat and gunbelt, and the ridiculous hat, and slips out the door. Heading downstairs to the restaurant area, he snags a cup of black coffee, and fires up his first coffin nail of the day. Taking the coffee cup with him, he crosses to the desk, and tells the clerk to call a cab for him, then heads back to the restaurant. He drains the cup quickly, and snags a passing waiter with a full pot and refills it. There are not too many people up and about at this hour, but there are a few. He finishes the second cup of coffee, stubs the butt out in an ashtray on a nearby table, then heads out front to wait for the cab. He doesn't actually have to wait, as it slides smoothly up to the curb as he exits the hotel. He gets in the back, and tells the driver, "Market District, Waterfront." "Yes, sir," replies the driver, and within minutes they are there. He pays the driver and climbs out, and watches for a moment as it slides off into the mist. Cultures may differ, geography may change, but, Tommy figures, fishing is fishing, and they start early. Sure enough, as he steps onto the dock, a 30 footer with a single piston steam engine materializes offshore, and putt-putts its way toward the dock. It has a truncated mast supporting a boom, from which are furled nets, an open wheel house about two thirds aft, with a very big, very black man at the wheel. The engine noise stops, and there is a sizzling hiss as he bleeds off pressure, and the prow of the utilitarian craft noses up to the dock. The big man jumps nimbly from the deck to the planking of the dock, and secures lines fore and aft. Noticing Tommy, he inquires, "Something I can help you with, Mister?" Tommy grunts, "You Matuba- Joseph Matuba?" "I am," replies the big African. "I want ta talk ta ya about a job, Joe." "I have a job, Mister," says Matuba, and turns back to the boat, taking baskets of fish from the deck. "This is a better job." Gunn says. "Better pay, easier work." Matuba screws his big face up into a skeptical frown. "What's this job? I got my own boat, I got customers, what's better than that?" "How about you come with us on our expedition? We need a man that knows fish, freshwater and salt. We'll be heading inland later today, and we're going to want to provision as we go...I want somebody along who knows what's good and what ain't, and somebody who knows prices...we don't want to get cheated and ended up eating chum fer dinner."
I'll pay twice whatever you can make here...yer boat will still be here when we get back." The big African shakes his head, "My customers may not be, though...and I have ...other business..as well." Tommy pauses, reaches in his coat pocket and gets the box of Sullivan-Powells. He offers one to Matuba, who takes it, then lights one for himself, and passes the Zippo to the big black man. Cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, he grins, and as Matuba hands him back the Zippo, Tommy grabs the man's hand, and grips it hard at the wrist. "If that other business was a skinny Belgian kid with a big adam's apple and a straw hat, that business is over..I'm cutting myself in, and him out. His mouth's too big." Matuba narrows his eyes, and pulls his hand back, rubbing his wrist. "You look like a rich European fool, Mister, but your grip says that is not all there is to you...what do you really want?"
"I'm American, Joe. I want what every American wants...ta get rich. The blabbermouth said something about diamonds, Joe...I want 'em." He takes a drag on the cigarette, blows out the smoke, and continues, "Now I figger you was lookin' for some funding...I got plenty. If ya wasn't just blowin' smoke up th' Belgian kid's ass, I think we can do business...don't worry, Joe, I'll make sure ya get yer cut." The big Negro is still scowling. "Why should I get a cut when I can have them for myself, all of them?" Tommy grins, "If ya could do that, you'd have already done it. There's somebody else in this game, ain't there?" Matuba's eyes flick downward, then back up to Gunn's face. "Yep...thought so," says Tommy. "Who?"
Joseph Matuba is a big man, and he's quick for a big man. His hand flashes down inside the gunnel of his boat, and comes back up with a wicked looking fish billy made of some sort of dense hardwood, a tapering handle swelling into a bulbous knob on the business end. "Mister, you know too much!" he cries as he swings his arms up and back, preparing to knock this meddling man's brains out. As quick as he is, though, Gunn is quicker. Drawing on the "Jew Jitsu" moves his Chinese friend Hao Bao Chu taught him, his left hand flashes up, and blocks the big man's left elbow at the apex of his backswing, simultaneously unsheathing the Colt with his right hand and placing it hard under the angle of Matuba's jaw. "Aht aht ahhhh, big man...Drop it!" The club clumps back into the boat. "Now, I'm going to offer ya a job one more time...and if ya don't say yes this time, I'm gonna plug ya twice in th' head an' drop ya in the harbor here....what's it gonna be?"
"When do we start, Sir?" Matuba says, a bit sullenly. "Right now," says Gunn, still keeping the automatic pressed into Matuba's jaw, "with ya tellin' me who th' third party is...Nicky said he 'knew a guy who knew a guy'...I figger yer th' guy he knew...now who's th' guy you know?"
"An Italian...His name is Mike Sabarese."
Tommy nods, and reholsters the Colt. "Good. I knew we could do business. As of now, you're in our employ," Gunn reaches in his pocket and fetches out two hundred dollar bills, and pushes them into Matuba's hand. The big man's scowl relaxes...maybe this isn't going to be so bad after all. "Get yer affairs in order, and meet us at noon at th' Aerodrome...an' if ya don't show up, I'll come lookin' for ya, and if I have ta do that, we ain't gonna have such a pleasant conversation as we did this time." Tommy turns and walks away. Matuba rubs his jaw where the barrel of the Colt had been pressed into it and watches the man walk away. The Italian just said find somebody with money to invest. He shrugs...one rich white man should be just as good as another, and two hundred dollars is more than either Sabarese or Nicky has given him. He'll play along, for now.
As Gunn walks away, he thinks about what he just learned. "Sabarese," he thinks to himself, "That's a Sicilian name...is there anything anywhere that the mob ain't involved in?"
He heads back to meet Abi for breakfast.